Once Upon a Billionaire: Blue Collar Billionaires, Book 1

by Jessica Lemmon

  “God, it’s hot today.” Amber fans her program faster and I lift mine and do the same. I allow my eyes to rake over the handsome speaker, sweat glistening on his upper lip, and remember last night in bed and how he was working up a sweat for a different reason entirely.

  Mmm.

  “Thank you for coming out today. You have vouchers in your programs for food and discounts at the shops,” Nate announces. “Take advantage of it, it won’t be a regular occurrence.” His voice is a low, teasing warning that makes women in the crowd giggle and sends goosebumps skittering over my skin, even in this heat.

  He steps off the stage as people begin to disperse. Daniel grumbles something about taking off, and for us to enjoy ourselves as Nate approaches. They exchange dismissive male glances and then Nate is at my side.

  “Hi, Amber.”

  “Hi.” She beams. Seriously, she could give the sun a run for its money today. “I’m…thank you. For the…things.” She waves her program awkwardly. “Coupons. Whatever. I’m going shopping.” She leans a tad closer to me to mutter, “You kids have fun.” Then she wanders off.

  “She okay?” he asks, looking genuinely confused.

  “Don’t tell me you have no idea how women react to you.” I roll my eyes.

  “If you’re the one I’m gauging by, I don’t,” he quips. He doesn’t wait for me to argue that I find him hot beyond belief, which I respect. “How about lunch?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  We choose a martini bar called Coax, which might be the newest, most sparkling restaurant I’ve ever set foot in. The bar gleams, the tables shine. You know the saying the floor is so clean you could eat off it? You could.

  There aren’t a lot of people in here yet, but I have a feeling they’ll flock to Grand Marin after five o’clock. Once we’ve enjoyed our drinks—Nate, a beer and for me, my usual dirty martini, we snack on an ahi tuna plate and a dish called “sticky chicken bites.” The food is delicious, and I’m pleasantly buzzed from my martini. The manager visits the table and strong-arms Nate into allowing him to comp the food. I can tell this isn’t their first meeting, and again admire Nate and his business skill. Everyone seems to like and respect him, which is impressive. It challenges the idea I had about how wealthy folk are self-serving. Especially when Nate leaves an impressively large tip on the table for our hardworking server.

  Outside, the sidewalks are teeming with people and in the parking lots beyond, cars are pouring in from the road.

  “You know how to draw them in,” I say, impressed.

  His hand clasps mine as we dodge an incoming gaggle of men who look like they just came from the office. They’re aiming for a sports bar on the corner.

  “I want to show you something,” Nate tells me. We cut across the street and pass several retail establishments. A store selling jewelry and handbags, a boujie shop outfitted with top-of-the-line dog accessories like diamond collars and sweaters and memory foam beds. So taken with the sights around me, I nearly plow into him when he stops abruptly at an unmarked wooden door with potted plants on either side. He pulls out a key and unlocks the knob and then locks it behind us. The stairwell is cool and dim, but windows here and there looking down on the street let some light in. At the top of the stairs is a glass door with the words PROPERTY MANAGER stamped on them in white.

  I know where we are. The office he pointed out and asked me if I wanted to work in, the one sitting above the street and overlooking the property.

  He slides a keycard and the door whispers open. You know how there is a “new car” smell? Well, if there’s a “new office” smell, this one has it.

  The entry is outfitted with a tall white counter. Potted plants adorn the surface, their greenery spilling over the edges. I run my fingers along the spidery leaves of one as Nate says, “This is reception or an assistant’s desk. If you—or whomever—takes this position needs some help.”

  I smirk as he slides me a smug glance.

  Behind reception is the office. It looks larger from the inside than from the outside looking in. There are two glass walls, given this is the corner of the building, overlooking the street.

  “This is the side you saw,” he says. “You can see out. They can see in.”

  The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a gorgeous view. I could swear there are even more people milling about than a few minutes ago.

  “Over here”—he walks us past the desk, bookshelves, and another plant—“is the conference room.”

  “This is a very nice office.” I run my hand along the metal chairs flanking the long, black table.

  “It better be. Cost a mint to design.”

  A wall separates the conference room from the corner office, glass, but there is a half-wall on the bottom, its top ledge draped with a long box of overflowing plants. I touch one of the leaves.

  “They’re fake,” he says. “No sunlight required.”

  Next, he points at the shoppers below. “They can’t see us over here. There’s a coating on the windows on this side.” Then he turns his back to the window, where people wander to and fro. He reaches for his belt. “Want me to moon them to prove it to you?”

  I cup a hand over my mouth to stifle a laugh.

  “Caught you off-guard and you actually gave me a big grin.”

  “Did not.” I affect a serious expression. He walks over to me and rests his wide palms on my hips.

  “What do you think? Would you like to run Grand Marin?”

  My heart races at his proposition. At the idea of being in charge of this entire place. Of being in charge, period. It’s scary, and my track record is terrible. But the gorgeous office, the stunning view, the opportunity for challenge and excitement…

  It’s tempting. And frightening at the same time.

  “I have no idea how to be a property manager, Nate.”

  “And yet you’re absolutely breathless at the prospect of learning. You’re excited. Admit it.”

  “How do you know what excites me?”

  He dips his head and sweeps his tongue into my mouth. Bending me back over his forearm, my ass hits the boardroom table and he runs a firm hand from my hip to my stomach and then up to my breast. He toys with my nipple over the fabric and then stops as fast as he started. In one swift move, I’m on my feet again, hot and bothered, and he’s peering down at me with that same smug expression he’s been wearing since we arrived.

  I can’t let him get away with that.

  I grip the fabric of my light summer dress and begin hiking up the skirt. Slowly, I reveal my legs and then my thighs. His smile fades. His eyes are fastened to my body and I walk over to the glass, skirt hiked high.

  “You swear no one can see?” I peek over my shoulder and a strand of my long hair sticks to my damp cheek. Given the empty office isn’t air-conditioned at the moment, it’s stuffy in here.

  “That’s what the window guys tell me.” His eyes go dark with want, and I long to see them go darker.

  “Only one way to find out,” I say, and then I pull the dress over my head.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Nate

  This isn’t why I brought her up here, but I’m not complaining.

  Vivian stands in front of the windows in naught but a buttercup yellow bra-and-panty set. There are little bows at the side of each hip and one in the center of her cleavage.

  “If you’re trying to get the job, you already have it.” I love this side of her. She seems free. A hell of a lot freer than she did even a few days ago. “Not that I’m arguing with your tactic.”

  “Don’t waste time arguing.” She reaches behind her and unclasps her bra, dropping it to the floor. Her nipples are round and full and perched in the center of her round and full breasts. A little trickle of sweat slides between those breasts as she wiggles out of her panties.

  It’s fast approaching boiling point in this room but I’m not going anywhere. I tug off my shirt and make quick work of my pants. Then I lift her and deposit her onto
the table meant to discuss quarterly reports, occupancy, and other stale topics.

  She peeks over my shoulder. “No one seems to be gaping up at the window, do they?”

  I pretend to check. “Nope.”

  “You must be right about the glass.”

  “Maybe they’re being polite.” I kiss a trail along her salty skin. She tips her head back to give me better access.

  “Let them watch. It’s been a while since I had a scandal in my life.”

  I pull my head up and blink, dazed.

  She giggles. “Sorry. I’m no good at this seduction stuff.”

  “Disagree.” I lower my head and suckle a nipple into my mouth. She gasps, drawing her knees up, her sandals stuttering along the table’s surface. I continue licking and suckling until I reach the apex of her thighs. Then I have a seat and pull her ass to the edge of the table and lower my face to taste her.

  Her hips arch and she thrusts her pussy into my face. I continue my attentive assault, enjoying her taste and the scent of her vanilla perfume and lotion—she has both, I know that now. She calls it “scent layering.” I call it her driving me out of my mind with need.

  A few more delicate licks and nipple plucks later, she’s moaning and coming. I waste no time standing and spreading her thighs. I grip my cock and stroke, admiring her damp folds, the glistening tips of her breasts, and the sated, satisfied look in her eyes. I can’t get enough of her.

  “Condom,” she whispers. I blink to reset my brain. Right. Condom. That would be important. “Tell me you were a good Boy Scout and brought one with you?”

  “I was never a Boy Scout,” I mutter, pretending to be insulted. I bend down and fish a condom from the wallet in my pants pocket. Rolling it on, I send her a smile. “Street smarts.”

  I scoop her into my arms. I consider pressing her ass against the glass and finishing us both off, but I’m not sure if the one-way glass works with body parts smashed and gyrating against it. Better not risk it, for her sake. She’s had enough publicity for a lifetime.

  Instead, I wheel her around to an empty wall and settle her against it. Her hair slides up the wall as I bring her body over mine. I enter her in inch by precious inch and watch as her face melts in ecstasy. She mutters “so good, so good,” over and over.

  I put my biceps to work lifting and dropping her onto me, and fit in a calf workout by holding her suspended. Soon we’re both panting, grunting, and God help me, she’s begging. A high, breathy “please, Nate, please” and I can’t resist those words from this woman. I weld my back teeth together to keep from blowing too soon as I work her into a generous lather.

  She goes over again and it’s not a moment too soon. I follow, half-growling, half dying given the cramp in my thigh. By the time I finish with a colorful swear word, we slide down the wall in a sweaty heap, her on my lap, my hand gripping my hamstring.

  “Fuck me!” I grumble, stuck between immense sexual satisfaction and the most intense yet stupid muscle pain known to man.

  And what does my girl do? She laughs at me and follows it with a smart-assed comment.

  “I thought I just did.”

  After checking in with my foreman in Chicago, and determining the site is well on its way to completion, I can rest a little easier. I’m looking at a live-work near Cincinnati next, a ritzy older neighborhood needing a boost. I’m toying with the idea of keeping the original buildings and zoning for retail and residential in the same area.

  Of course that means a re-zoning fight, like the one I’m embroiled in with Daniel for another Clear Ridge property. And, those older buildings will need updated wiring, plumbing, structural repairs. A smile curves my mouth at the prospect. I do love a challenge.

  After Viv and I left Grand Marin, she let me know she was staying at her place for a few days to do a deep clean. She’s been meaning to since Walt moved to Chicago to work on my nearly completed site. I probably could have used him elsewhere, but I wanted to pitch him an underhanded softball. Most of the problems have been ironed out at the site. All we have to do is hustle it to completion. If he can show up and do grunt work, he’s in good shape.

  I’m planning a party for the completion of the job. At a pub downtown named O’Leary’s. Like Lainey says, we have to celebrate our accomplishments, and this site reflects a year’s worth of hard work. There is always the chance of something going sideways at the end, but I have smart women and men working on that site. And I’m never more than a private plane ride away if I need to step in and help.

  Anyway, as a result of Vivian’s nesting in her own apartment I’ve been without her in my bed for three days. I’m aware she needs a breather, and her brother moving a few states away wasn’t easy for her, so I’ve let her be. I fell into my old routine of working night and day, and honestly? I’ve been enjoying it.

  Yesterday I found another site in Clear Ridge that would make an excellent spot for business professionals. Lawyers, massage therapists—one-man-or-woman shows in need of sophisticated, mature workspaces. The buildings are dated, and not in the sexy way the older buildings in Cincy are, so I’m probably looking at a raze and rebuild.

  Flowers in hand—a spur-of-the-moment purchase from a guy at a red light on the way here—I cross the street toward CRBI to surprise Vivian under the guise of telling her about my idea and wooing her away from her desk to come take a look at the site with me. The last time I heard from her was yesterday afternoon. Just a quick text about how she and Amber just ate the best sushi in town. I’m glad she has a close friend at work. Her guard seems to drop a little more every day.

  I convinced her to take the Grand Marin job, by the way. I don’t know if the sex put her over, or if her being in the office helped her envision her future, but I’m damn excited about it. Owen Construction’s home office is handling the particulars for the time being. She insisted on giving Daniel notice and I insisted on giving her time to get used to the new normal. Walt in Chicago. Her at Grand Marin. And soon, her in my house full-time.

  I smile to myself. I have to be careful with her, but I’m okay with that. She comes around eventually, I’ve learned.

  Stepping into the bureau, I nod as I walk past reception. Elizabeth knows me by now. The grandmotherly woman continues speaking into the phone while waving me through. I stroll past a copy machine and a few tall file cabinets and arrive at Vivian’s cube wall.

  “Delivery for Ms. Vandemark,” I utter, thrusting the flowers through the opening while the rest of me stays hidden. When I don’t hear an answer, I step around to reveal myself and find her cubicle empty.

  A squeak of a chair turns my head. Amber leans out of her own cubicle. “She didn’t come in today.”

  My brow furrows. Amber matches my expression.

  “She didn’t call you?” she asks.

  “No. Did she call you?”

  She shakes her head, and concern causes my stomach to do a barrel roll. My phone is to my ear a second later. While I listen for the ringer, I hand the bouquet to Amber. “For you.”

  She probably thinks that’s weird, but I don’t wait around to find out. I’m walking at a fast clip past the copier and past Elizabeth and out the front door. No answer. The ringing gives way to a message and I leave a voicemail.

  “Vivian, it’s Nate. Call me as soon as you can.”

  I peck in a text message communicating the same and then cross the street to my Tesla and drive to her house.

  The first of Vivian’s neighbor’s doors I bang on answers. An elderly woman in a pair of pale green polyester pants and a loudly patterned floral shirt listens as I calmly explain I haven’t heard from Vivian today and I want to make sure she’s all right. I already knocked on Viv’s door and rang the doorbell. I also tried the windows, which were locked tight. I stopped short of breaking and entering.

  “That nice man who was living there gave me a key,” the woman tells me. “Her brother, I think it was,” she’s calling out as she rummages through a drawer in her kitchen. I’m nerv
ous and worried. I check my texts. Nothing.

  “I can’t give it to you, though,” Viv’s neighbor tells me with earnest concern. “I was entrusted with a key and I can’t let just anyone inside.”

  I force a smile even though my patience has dwindled. “That’s fine.”

  She toddles across the stoop to Vivian’s door and opens it. She turns around, probably to tell me she’ll go inside and check without me, but I’m already in the living room.

  “Vivian!” I shout, calm but loud. The kitchen is clean, dishes in the rack. They’re dry. Not a drop of water on them. The oven is cool. The coffee pot empty and sparkling.

  Back in the living room, I notice a basket of laundry in mid-fold I missed when I blew past it. Almost like she was interrupted. A stack of folded clothes sits on the coffee table. The TV is on, a big bold MUTE in the corner.

  I jog down the hallway and quickly search the two bedrooms and the bathroom.

  When I return, the neighbor lady is wringing her hands from the doorway. “Should I call the police?”

  Fuck. Is that where we are? Mind spinning, I nearly leap out of my skin when the phone rings from my back pocket.

  “Vivian,” I answer.

  “Nate, hi. Sorry, I was asleep.”

  A whoosh of air leaves my lungs and I put my hand to my chest to calm my racing heart. Seems ridiculous to spout out that she is to never do this to me again, young lady! but the urge is there all the same.

  Instead I manage, “Are you okay?”

  There’s a pause long enough to put my heart through its paces again, but then she says, “I’m in Chicago with Walt.”

  I nod at her neighbor and tell her quietly, “It’s Vivian. She’s fine. I’ll lock up.”

  No longer concerned to leave me in the apartment, her neighbor nods and asks me to tell Vivian hello before heading across the stoop back to her place.

  Too wired to sit, I pace the short distance between front door and kitchen. “Is he okay?”

  “He’s fine. Physically, anyway. Dee overdosed. He called me last night around ten o’clock. I was sitting on the couch watching TV.”